


id

by coriandrumsativum



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Vaguely Supernatural, because of the supernatural, idk we all know i'm garbage anyway, possibly a little bit dub-con-y
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 16:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13721661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriandrumsativum/pseuds/coriandrumsativum
Summary: Napoleon's eyes are black in the dark.





	id

**Author's Note:**

> because who doesn't like vaguely dark, vaguely supernatural smut?

Napoleon Solo’s eyes are black in the dark, liquid, bottomless, entrancing. They fill him with lust, fill him with need, fill him with _want._ Never has Illya _wanted_ the way he does when Solo’s whiteless eyes are turned on him, and the sound of fabric on skin is heated whispers in his ears and the pounding of two heartbeats is the ocean thundering against the shore. There are promises in those eyes, such promises, and trails of fire in his touch. Clothing falls without a thought, bodies move without will, and Illya finds bliss upon his knees. 

There is a light outside the window, catching and dancing in the floating curtains, but all he can see is the shadow, forms defined in absence; all he can feel is desire. 

He desires, and oh, does Solo bestow. Takes him apart with hot skin and hotter mouth, hands roaming wanton and greedy and teeth too sharp, lips too full, tongue too rough to be bearable. He gives, but it only leaves Illya wanting more. Touches only awake a ravenous hunger within him, kisses only unleash a wild force, and fucking leaves him breathless with hopeless desperation.

No matter how many times he comes, it’s never enough.

No matter how much he begs, he’s never truly satisfied.

Solo’s hand is on his wrists, pinning them easily to the mattress above his head, and Illya would die like this if he could – the slide of sweat-slick skin, the terrible strength in those fingers, the play of light and dark upon a truly marvellous form, the hypnosis of sinuous motion, the fullness of Solo within him, under his skin, in his blood, drinking him in with those liquid dark eyes. It’s maddening, torturous, _inhuman,_ but he’d rather die like this, at the height of sensation, than take even the smallest step away from the brink.

To say that he comes would be woefully insufficient. He is _released._

It’s been two days.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting around in my google drive for ages so I finally set it free even though I wanted it to be m o r e . 
> 
> continuation is a distinct possibility, so feel free to share your thoughts!


End file.
